Square One
by Ventisquear
Summary: Melyn Lavellan has lost everything - his clan, his love, his arm. He's ready to give up and end it all - if only they left him be...


_AN: Originally written as a Secret Santa 2015 for my dearest **ShebasDawn** \- who guessed me right away. :D_

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To be or not to be, that was the question.

Melyn Lavellan had a vague idea that he had read the line somewhere before, probably in some of the high-brow stuff that _shemlen_ who pretend to be cultured and educated loved to brag about. He was glad that part of his life was over, at least. If he never had to deal with another pompous _shemlen_ fool again, he'd die a happy man.

The question was, _when_ should it happen.

The sea beneath the cliff threw itself at its sharp edge, as if trying to reach up to him, grab his toes and pull him down, while the seagulls shrieked their desperate warnings. Foolish birds. What use was a warning now? A year ago, maybe there would have been a point.

To think he felt honored to be picked for the task! The Keeper could be convincing, when she wanted. No one else, she said. In the whole clan. No one else was better for this delicate task that required both quick mind and strong arm. Every word she spoke had filled him with pride until he almost floated above the ground. He could not refuse.

How could he have known, that three years later, his clan would be a history, and the whole world at the brink of destruction? Brought on by the only man he had considered a friend, amidst all the madness, one of his own. Even though Solas never pretended to like the Dalish, Melyn always hoped it was just lack of information, insufficient knowledge, annoying but easy to fix, with a bit of patience.

Dread Wolf. Melyn burst into a bitter laughter. Of all the men in the world, he had to fall in-

"What's so funny down there?" a voice asked at his left.

Melyn whirled around. An elven guy, not much older than himself, was peeking over the cliff with a focused expression. He had carrot-red hair braided into dozens of plaits, kept out of his face by a wide bandana, a few thousand freckles, and one of those ugly, protruding shemlen noses. No vallaslin, of course.

"Meh, it's just water and rocks," the red-head muttered, before he turned to Melyn, who could now see his eyes, hazel-brown and crackling with mirth. "You stared down there so intensely, I hoped there was at least a dozen of half-naked mermaids."

"What do you want from me, flat-ear? Who are you?" Melyn gripped his sword, but the man didn't seem threatened.

"The only flat thing here is your ugly nose," he replied cheerfully. "I do not want anything from you. But you need something from me, so I strongly suggest you drop the high act. Besides, you're outnumbered." The elf pointed over his shoulder, and Melyn sullenly turned his head.

Two more men were standing there, watching the scene – a tall, blond shemlen with broad shoulders whose apologetic smile reminded him of Cullen, and another nosy flat-ear, with a ridiculous, meaningless imitation of a vallaslin tattoo curling down from his left brow all the way to the chin, who observed him with a focused glare of a hunting predator.

"Allow me to introduce you," the red-head said. "My Second, Alistair Theirin, and my everything, Zevran Arainai. Alistair, Zevran – as you already know, this is Melyn Lavellan, the mighty Inquisitor, at your service." He gave Melyn a pat on the shoulder, as if they were the best drinking buddies. "Oh, and I guess I should introduce myself, as well. Flann Tabris, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. And before you ask, we're here because a common friend asked us to keep an eye on you."

Melyn frowned, trying to make some sense of all the blabbering. "Which friend?" he asked suspiciously.

"Our _most divine_ one," Flann replied with a wink. "Now come on. It's almost dinner and we skipped lunch searching for you and if I don't eat something real soon, I'll get all irritable and moody and trust me, you don't want to see me like that."

oOo

The fat drop of grease sizzled into the campfire, sending up a burst of flames. Alistair absent-mindedly pulled the stick away and slid the sausage on a slice of bread, fully absorbed in the Inquisitor's story. He had read all Leliana's reports, of course, but it was different to hear it directly from the main star of the events. He didn't act like a star, though. In truth, it seemed he didn't want to talk about it at all, and if it wasn't for Flann's tireless poking, he'd probably stay silent and watch the sparks fly to the darkened sky. He didn't look special, either. A young elf, handsome and lithe like all of them, but with a muscular build of an archer, a face covered by a complicated and delicate tattoo that made him look stern, framed with thick black hair. The usual elven standard. The only thing that stood out was the empty sleeve, limply hanging at the Inquisitor's right side.

Alistair couldn't help glancing at it every few moments. It wasn't the first time Alistair had met a person with a missing limb, but it was the first time it was someone this young.

Twenty-seven. Most of his life still in front of him. And already so bitter. The sudden fall from grace, with the betrayal from a man he loved – he didn't say it directly, but it was painfully obvious nonetheless – together with becoming a cripple, were more than the Inquisitor could cope with. What would have happened, if they hadn't find him when they did? If they had come half an hour later?

The Inquisitor looked up at him. With a pang of an embarrassed guilt, Alistair realized he was staring again and quickly dropped his gaze, pretending to be busy with the sausage.

oOo

They headed to south, tramping through the Brecilian Forest. Melyn had to admit they moved almost as efficiently as Dalish – when they disbanded their camp in the morning, no trace was left of their presence, besides a small, cold pile of ashes. It was difficult to believe it was the same group of people who had left all kinds of junk at their campsites on the Storm Coast, from bottles of wine to old sigils and private correspondence and torn journals.

"Those were _Clarel's_ men, not mine," Flann said with a derisive snort when he pointed it out. "To be honest, I never thought much of the crazy bitch. I hope you don't think we're all like that." His eyes flashed like a frozen surface of a deep lake as he said that, and Melyn considered it wise to assure him such a thing never crossed his mind.

"When I think how many good Wardens were slaughtered at Adamant because of her gullibility, it makes my blood boil. Literally."

For a second, Melyn was tempted to tell him that if his blood was literally boiling, it would mean two things – that they were under the attack of maleficars, and that he was going to die in the next moment – but thought better of it. What was the point? There was no point. There was no point in anything, anymore. The world would soon end anyway.

He decided to stay with them for a while simply because it was the easiest way. He could leave, but he would have to explain himself, give them a reason, and he didn't feel like thinking about it. Besides, they'd inform Leliana and he'd soon have her spies at his heels again in no time. Her care was cute, but unwanted. At first he hoped to lose them in the forest, but it soon became obvious that was impossible. None of the Wardens mentioned the incident at the cliff, but whenever he wandered out of their eyesight for more than five minutes, he would soon stumble over one of them. What happy coincidences! Flann commented with a wide grin after the third time.

The first two days were the worst. Then he stopped being an exciting rarity. Alistair finally stopped staring at his arm, and Zevran came to conclusion he was no threat to his beloved Commander, and it was easier to breathe. As for Flann, as long as you weren't a threat to 'his men', he treated you like a cute puppy.

Six days after they met, they finally reached their destination. After the glory of Skyhold, the place looked… backwater. More than anything else, the place looked like a hunting lodge of a minor noble that had gone bankrupt. It couldn't have more than fifteen bedrooms, and the training yard was barely big enough for a dozen dummies. Although it didn't really matter, as there were only five Wardens when they arrived. Six, if you counted a blond who sat in on a porch in a rocking chair with a vacant expression, mechanically patting a ginger cat every time he rocked forward.

"This is our southern branch," Flann explained. "I know it's not much, but it's cozy and safe. No need to worry about assassins, spies, dread wolves or evil mirrors here. Zevran and I will soon have to leave for the Deep Roads, but Alistair will stay here. He can train you to fight with a sword, if you wish. I know Dagna's already working on a new arm for you, but I think it would be good if you learned to fight and defend yourself without it as well. But it's up to you, of course."

"Thank you. I'll take that offer."

Flann patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, kid. You're in a good hands now. Where Maker can't get, he sends a Warden."

Melyn supposed he was expected to smile at that. "Who's that guy?" he asked instead, pointing at the blond in the rocking chair.

"He's exactly who you think he is," Flann said. "Don't worry. He's harmless. Just don't touch his cat."

"His cat?" Melyn's brows furrowed in confusion.

The man in the chair must have realized they were talking about him, because he was now looking at them with keen interest. His lips spread into a wide, drooling grin as he met Melyn's gaze.

"Boom," he said.

oOo

Alistair ran his hand through his hair irritably, watching the retreating back of the elf. He was at his wit's end, here. He tried all he could to get closer to Melyn, but that man was shut tighter than a clam. Every day of the last two weeks was the same. Thanks to his training as an archer, Melyn's arm was pretty strong already and didn't have problems adjusting to sword fighting, making a decent progress every day. No, training wasn't a problem.

The problem was everything else. All the time between the trainings Melyn spent alone. Most of the time he was holed up in his room reading a book, or wandering in the forest. Alone. Not far and not trying to kill himself, as he icily assured Alistair when he asked about it. The other Wardens tried to talk to him at first, but when they received only a non-committal one-word answers, if they received any answers at all, they finally stopped.

The only living creature that the elf tolerated was the cat. Probably because he didn't have any other choice. When the noble Ser-Pounce-A-Lot the Fourth decided you were worthy of his attention, he gave it to you whether you liked it or not. Melyn was apparently found very worthy. The moment he emerged from his room, the cat was at his heels, and when he sat down to eat his meals, it sat too – in his lap. Melyn always tried to shoo it away, but Alistair would swear he caught a ghost of a smile crossing Melyn's face once or twice.

But across the mess hall, in his rocking chair, sat another silent guy, who wasn't smiling. No, he wasn't smiling at all.

oOo

Melyn couldn't see why he should get involved in this. So the drooling lunatic was gone. And? They weren't friends, they weren't comrades, they had nothing in common. If the guy decided to end his misery, it wasn't Melyn's business to stay his hand. In fact, he'd thank him for doing the world a favor. One less mass-murderer around wasn't something that would make him sad.

Of course, he didn't voice his thoughts. Alistair wasn't interested in hearing them anyway. He put on his armor, took his sword, and joined the search. But he didn't call. At the first opportunity, he lost other fools and wandered around, as if it was just another of his afternoon walks.

He loved those walks. Even though this forests was hundreds of miles away from his home, with different trees, different smells, it was still the closest thing to home. The only place where he could be. Listening to the chatter of leaves in the wind, watching the light dance down through the branches, feeling the bark under his hands, deep like wrinkles on a face of an old Keeper, patient and kind. None of the shemlens he had ever met understood the forest. They were noisy intruders, ignorant conquerors, no matter how uppity they were about their 'culture', there was neither wisdom nor kindness in it. He should have left long ago. He should have never accepted their offer to be their Inquisitor. The leader of fools! What a great career!

He should never have met-

A soft sob cut off the trail of his thoughts.

There he was: the pathetic imitation of a man, curled under the birch tree, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as if that the only movement he remembered how to do.

The man who thought that he had the right, that he had the authority to change the world, to right its wrongs, to return its innocence. By slaughtering those who didn't fit into his vision. If there were innocents caught between, it didn't matter. They were necessary casualties, sacrifices for the greater good. Irrelevant for the great scheme of a Man With Vision.

Melyn's fists curled into the balls. "I hate you," he said as he took a step forward.

The man didn't react.

"I said I hate you. Who did you think you are? Tearing us all apart?"

The man looked at him, his wide eyes wet with tears. "Ser-Pounce-A-Lot," he said miserably.

Melyn ignored him. "What makes you think you're better than the rest?" he demanded. "How do you know your world is better? How can it be better, when it's rooted in blood and rotting corpses of innocents?"

"He doesn't like me anymore," the man replied.

"Finally figured it out, did you? You think you got the world on its knees, that you can claim it yours. But you're alone. Nobody cares for you anymore. You're a fake. You're just a burden we must share, for a little longer."

Melyn pulled out the sword. Behind him, someone was shouting at him to stop. But his heart was closed. He pointed his sword at the man's neck, who looked at it as if he had never seen such a thing before.

"Nobody cares?"

"Nobody. Not here. Not Beyond. Not in the Void. Die and be damned forever."

One slash. One slash and it would all be over. But he couldn't lift his arm. Melyn glared over his shoulder at the fool trying to restrain him.

"Drop the sword," Alistair ordered, his voice as cold as his eyes. "Now."

"Why are you defending him?"

"Because he's not the man you want. Look at him. This one had paid his price already."

"Nobody cares," the man howled, his chin wet with drool.

Melyn let the sword fall from his hand and stepped aside. Alistair called the others, and they took the man back home. He was still repeating 'nobody cares', and they held his hand and assured him in unnaturally cheerful voices that it wasn't true, they cared, yes, they cared a lot, and so did Ser Pounce.

More lies. More pretense.

Why did he still care?

oOo

The easy part was over. Alistair closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then picked Melyn's sword. "Here. You dropped this. Come. We should head back, too. It'll be dark soon."

"I'm Dalish, Alistair. I won't get lost in darkness," the elf pointed out, but obediently followed. "What happened to him?" he asked after a while.

"He couldn't cope with the consequences of what he did. He wanted to kill himself, but in a way that would also kill the vengeance demon inside him. He performed a ritual, but… well, you saw the results."

"His regret came too late."

Alistair glanced at the elf and sighed. "You still love him, don't you," he said gently. "Solas."

The elf's jaw clenched for a moment. "It doesn't matter. I'll still kill him. You don't have to worry about that."

"If you survive to see him again."

Melyn halted and turned to him. "If you want to execute me for-"

"Execute you? Maker's breath, no. Do you have any idea how much bureaucracy would that cause? I'd be still filling in reports and explanations during my Calling. Thank you, I'll pass."

Melyn continued to stare at him without a tiniest hint of smile.

Alistair sighed. "It wasn't a threat, Melyn. It was an offer."

"For what?"

"For help. What I'm trying to say is, I'm here. To listen. If you want to speak. Or if you just need someone to be at your side. Or if you want to get it out of yourself in a fight. I'm right here."

"Why? We're not friends."

"Because I know what it feels like," Alistair replied. "Losing your family. Betrayal. Struggling to find a reason to face another day. Unrequited love."

Melyn didn't look convinced, but he didn't expect him to trust him at his word anyway. Alistair smiled and continued to walk. "As for Solas, don't worry. Your companions, Wardens, my Divine, me, you – he doesn't stand a chance. Bah, humbug. Saving the world is our everyday routine. We won't get lost in darkness, don't worry."

When they stepped out of the forest, it was already dark and the patch of sky above the clearing was littered with stars. The Wardens sat around a fire, humming a song about an ancient battle. The drooling ex-saviour of the world sat among them, rocking in his chair.

Melyn stopped, uncertain.

"Please excuse me. I should go-"

"No," Alistair said. "Not before you have a drink with us first. We got a few barrels yesterday – I'm told it's your favorite. Maraas-lok." He was pleased to see that the elf's lips curled into a little smile.

"And to what are we drinking?"

"All future savings of the world, and all future loves!" Alistair replied, pouring them both a glass.

Anders looked from Melyn to Alistair and smiled.

"Boom!" he said.


End file.
